


It's Always Been You

by ThatDestielShipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Became a whole ass episode, Bored Witch, Curse Breaking, Dean Winchester Hates Witches, First Kiss, I love my witch tbh, I will always be terrible at tags, Kiss or Die, M/M, Magic, Sassy Witch Things, Witch - Freeform, Witch Curses, dean realises his feelings, started as a pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29729496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatDestielShipper/pseuds/ThatDestielShipper
Summary: When the boys catch wind of a sadistic witch causing trouble with a series of twisted tasks, they arrive ready to take her down. But when she turns her sights on Dean, it might just reveal a thing or two for him.[This is probably the best summary I've ever written, and its still god-awful, please give me a chance]
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a throw away line that I wanted to write a dumb little cute scene around, and it accidentally spiraled into a whole episode's worth of fic... Like I'm not even kidding, this could just be an episode. How did this happen..?  
> I really enjoyed writing this (when I wasn't tearing my hair out over it), and its a month in the making, so I hope the amount of work I put in pays off!!
> 
> I'd like to give a HUGE shout out to my beta reader, @isaw_eternity_theothernight, this is the first time I've ever had a beta reader, and they have been a massive help, giving me a chance to bounce ideas around, reading half written sections because I was nervous that it was terrible, going through the whole fic TWICE, and just being great, Yrsa wouldn't have been half as cool without your encouragement, so thaaanks!!! (is it customary to add your beta reader as a co-writer, or dedicated the story to them???!)
> 
> I really hope you enjoy my fic, I've rambled too much, all comments are greatly appreciated xo

Will steadied himself on the chair; the uneven grass in his garden was making it hard to stand straight. He could feel her watching, and although he couldn’t see her, the hairs on the back of his neck were raised as if an omnipresent pair of eyes were boring into his back. He raised his right arm, shaking the sleeve back: _00:10:03, 00:10:02_. Will knew what was coming; he tensed as the white-hot pain gripped his insides once again. This episode lasted longer than every episode prior; they’d started at half hour intervals, but as the timer ticked closer and closer to _00:00:00_ , the intervals got shorter and shorter, and the pain lasted longer each time.

Will was sweating now, and it wasn’t just the proximity of the lit barbeque below him. His breaths, too, were coming in short shallow pants, partly from the searing agony that had just gripped every organ in his body and partly because he knew exactly what she wanted him to do to stop the pain. And it would be just as painful.

Unbeknownst to Will, the sigil on the back of his bicep flashed as he readied himself, tried unsuccessfully to even out his breathing, as if that would make what he was about to do any easier, any less painful. He raised his bare leg above the grill, the heat biting at his flesh even now. “ _She’ll kill me if I don’t,_ ” he thought to himself, trying as hard as he could to convince himself that this would be better than dying. “ _I’ve just gotta touch it, press my leg against it and then this is over. She’ll leave me alone_.” Will took a deep breath and held it, screwed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, and pressed his leg against the white-hot metal of the barbeque.

Pain. White hot, burning, searing pain gripped Will as he collapsed in a heap on the grass. His leg was on fire. No, worse, his leg was melting, it must be. This was how he imagined being burned with acid would feel, like his skin was dripping off in painful sluices. His eyes wouldn’t focus, tears freely streaming down his face, but even they felt like they were burning. Blindly his hands gripped at his knee, not daring to hold any closer, squeezing, hoping he could somehow hold the fire back, as if it would travel up his veins and spread like a disease through his body if he didn’t.

Blurred eyes caught a sudden movement in front of him; Will blinked a few times trying to clear his vision. A pair of knee-high leather boots stood barely a meter in front of him. Tensing for the flash of pain he knew he would burn through him, he rolled on his back, staring up at the person the boots belonged to. Of course it was her. The woman. And she was beaming at him, but the look in her eyes wasn’t kind. She crouched down next to him, the smile growing when he flinched away.

“Thank you Will,” she breathed. “That, was _very_ entertaining.” She reached and slowly ran her index finger down the side of his face and neck. The moment her cold finger made contact with his skin, the pain in his leg intensified. Will didn’t think it could have gotten worse, but somehow he was now nothing but fire. Every part of his body could feel the pain radiating from the lines seared into his calf, the smell of burnt flesh swelled in the air, scorching his nostrils. Just before he blacked out, a prickling burn ran up his right arm, and then there was nothing.

***

Simon stopped his car as close to the entrance as possible, and grabbed the carrier bag off the passenger seat and flung himself out of the car, not bothering to shut the door. He took off at a sprint to the main desk, pushing past families and young couples who were queuing politely at the kiosk. He inserted himself into the queue right behind the family who was currently paying for their tickets. Simon wrenched up his sleeve, oblivious to the tuts and stares being directed at him.

“23 minutes,” he whispered to himself, heart rate jumping up a notch. He tapped his foot impatiently. “Come on, come on, come on.”

Finally, the family pushed through the barrier and it was his turn. He jumped forward to the window, not bothering with polite greetings.

“Give me one ticket,” he barked at the teenager behind the plexiglass. She blinked at him. “Come on, I haven’t got time!” He thumped the counter. The hair on the back of his neck rose as another tidal wave of pain washed through him, like a hand squeezing each organ in turn, and for a second his legs went slack and he had to grip the counter to hold himself up. Once it passed, he straightened up, not looking at the people behind him who must be staring at him with equal parts terror and concern. “Hurry up!” he demanded of the ticket attendant.

Nervously, she tapped the screen a few times and began printing the ticket. Simon fumbled with his wallet, throwing $30 in the tray, and snatching the ticket from her hand before she could drop it on the counter. Then he was through the barrier and searching frantically for a map or a sign that directed him to the monkey enclosures. Eventually seeing a signpost pointing left, he followed every sign until he came to a gate that read Monkeyland above it. Sighing, he pushed through the gate, and skidded to a stop in front of the first enclosure: Chimpanzee’s. “ _Too big._ ” He thought to himself, running to the next. Orangutan’s. “ _Still too big, fuck_.” He moved to the next: Capuchin’s. “ _Yes!_ ” He allowed himself to stop for a second and take a deep breath. The little monkeys were meandering around their large enclosure, barely paying any attention to the children tapping on the glass, or the sweaty, panting man glaring in. 

“ _Why didn’t she give me more time?!_ ” Simon thought for the hundredth time. “ _This place is a fucking two hour drive. And she gave me, what, two and a half hours? Bitch._ ” He reached into the bag and pulled out the hammer he’d brought. Not giving himself time to think now, ignoring the people around him, he swung it against the glass.

That got the monkeys attentions. There must have been twenty in the enclosure and all of them stopped still, looking toward the glass. Simon swung again, not even registering that he’d made no damage to the glass. This time the monkeys jumped, scurrying together to the back of the enclosure. The people around him had taken notice; the children were crying, their parents rounding them up and pulling them away, a few of the larger men looked as though they were thinking of grabbing him to haul him away from the enclosure, but none of them could be sure what exactly this man would do.

Simon could feel the hair on the back of his neck again, as he collapsed against the glass, a high-pitched yelp coming from his throat. He could taste blood this time. The moment the pain passed he swung again, and again, and again, kept swinging even though he was barely chipping the glass, desperation ricocheting through him. He dropped the hammer and begun throwing himself against the glass over and over, not caring about the bruises he could feel forming across his body.

Nothing else mattered; his gaze was honed on the glass, barely able to even see the monkeys that were his goal. Because of this he barely noticed the three security guards as they tackled him to the ground.

Brain scrambled by the collision with the concrete, Simon struggled against the men.

“Let me go, please.” He was almost sobbing with desperation, “She’ll kill me if I don’t do this, please. Just one. Please!” He bucked as they tried to pin his feet and arms. Simon caught a glimpse of the timer as he tugged his arm free, _00:05:24_ , “Oh god please, let me go. I’ll bring it back, I’ll buy another. Please, she’s going to get me.” The men had caught his arm again, just in time to hold him down as another onslaught of pain lanced through him. This was the worst it had been; this time it felt like many hands had reached into this torso and were gripping every part of him, squeezing like they wanted to turn him to dust. He convulsed, jerking his head back, and as his head hit the concrete, he heard, clear and calm as though she was sat next to him, her voice whispering in his ear,

“Bor-ing.” And then he blacked out.

***

Abby left work later than usual. She didn’t often work late shifts - her parents didn’t like her coming home late, especially on a school night - but there had been no one else to cover the shift, and Wednesday nights were normally quiet. Between serving the handful of tables passing in and out of the diner, she’d done her homework while sitting at the counter, and she’d played tennis with balled up receipt paper and menus against the chef through the serving hatch. It had been a good shift, and she was walking the ten minutes home with a smile when she was approached by a woman. Taking her in, she saw that she wasn’t much taller than Abby, had thick, curl dark hair that fell to her shoulders, and a face you’d mistake for a kind one was it not for the cruel glint in her eyes. She smiled, and a feeling of being doused in icy water ran down Abby’s spine,

“I have a problem, Abby,” she started the moment Abby caught her eye. “I’m so very bored.” Abby frowned; she didn’t recognize this woman; how did she know her name? Every instinct in her told her to run as the woman stepped closer, within touching range, “Everyone in this town is _so boring_ – well, Will was very good, but the rest of them, _Gods_ , they’re unbelievably dull.”

“Who are you?” Abby whispered, knowing it was probably the most irrelevant question, but she was frozen with fear. There was something about this woman that didn’t feel right.

The woman rolled her eyes. “Don’t. Be. Boring.” she demanded, punctuating every word with a small step forward until she was almost nose to nose with Abby. Cold radiated from the woman, and Abby shivered. “Ask a better question,” she told her.

“What do you want from me?” Abby breathed, not daring to speak above a whisper. The woman’s smile widened.

“Entertainment.” Abby frowned again. “Your diary. Yes, I know you write a diary, I know your name, shut up.” The woman preemptively answered the questions in Abby’s head. “Go home, open your laptop, broadcast live. Read your diary to the world.” Abby managed to take a step back, her head spinning.

“Why?” was all she could manage. The woman stepped forward again, grabbing her by the arm this time so she couldn’t escape.

“Because I said so, because I’m bored, because I think it’ll be funny.” When she squeezed Abby’s arm, the spot where her thumb dug in began to burn as the woman leant forward and whispered in Abby’s ear in a language Abby didn’t recognize. A prickly burn ran from the woman’s thumb to the tips of Abby’s fingers, “Don’t leave anything out. I’ll know if you do. Oh, and you’ve got a deadline. It would be best for your general… aliveness if you didn’t miss it.”

The moment she let go, excruciating pain gripped Abby. Her knees gave way and she crashed to the floor. When the pain subsided, the woman was gone, and the timer now tattooed to Abby’s arm, started counting down from _02:00:00_.

***

“Remind me why we’re driving 6 hours for a video of girl reading her diary,” Dean asked for the second time, having been all but ignored the first time.

“She said someone made her do it,” Sam responded, not looking up from the pages of print-outs he’d brought with him.

“Yeah, but why is it our gig? Girl gets bullied into reading her own diary, it’s sad, but why is that our problem?” Dean had been looking forward to a weekend off; he and Sam had agreed to silence their phones and spend the weekend doing nothing but drinking and relaxing. Plus, Cas had just arrived; Dean had talked him into watching both parts of Kill Bill, and they were settling in to start the first film when Sam’s phone vibrated. He let it ring out the first time, but after the second time he got up to answer, much to Dean’s chagrin. Somehow Bobby had sold Sam on the case, and Dean found himself in the driver’s seat speeding down the highway, before he even had chance to ask where they were going.

“If you zoom in on the girl’s arm, there’s a sigil. Bobby says it’s a sign of really old magic, right Cas?” Sam held up the printed image of the sigil to Cas in the back seat.

“It is, Celtic I think, but I’m not well versed in Celtic magic,” he agreed.

“So, it’s gonna be a witch, brilliant.” Dean groaned. “I hate witches, man.” Sam rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored him, going back to pouring over the grainy pictures taken from the video. “How did Bobby even get the video?” Dean asked after an irritating lapse of silence.

“Jody. I think the towns sheriff pushed the video out to the whole state. They think it might become some kind of bullying trend. Y’know, like force the unpopular girl to spill all her secrets. Except Jody saw the sigil and thought that it was more than likely our thing,” Sam replied, once again not looking up.

Dean settled back in his seat, trying to work out why a witch might get off on humiliating a teenage girl. He was glad Cas had come along - witches could be hard to track down and tricky minxes to trap, and the extra angel muscle would come in handy. Plus it was nice to hunt with him every once in a while.

“Witches that practice Celtic magic tend to be old; I expect she’ll be quite powerful.” Cas piped up from the back seat.

“Thanks Cas, just ruin this case, just a little more,” Dean groaned again.

5 hours later, they had checked into a double room at the small motel in town, and Sam had pulled the address of the girl from the local records. Bobby had sent them some useful information gleaned from the video, which none of them had time to watch: her parents work late often, she’s an only child, she’s not particularly popular, and since the video was posted she’s been the laughing stock of the school. With that information under their belt, they were hoping she’d be finished with school and home alone; with her parents absent, they were hoping they wouldn’t have to lie about who they were.

They pulled up outside her house, and watched for a second, making sure there were no cars in the driveway.

Dean turned to Cas, straightening his tie for him. “Remember she’s 17, so don’t be weird.” Cas frowned. “Just, none of your freaky angel telepathy crap. She’s gonna be super emotional and scared, we don’t need you freaking her out by knowing what going on in her head, when everyone already knows what’s in her diary.” Sam raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t say anything. They all got out the car and approached the door, Dean stepping forward to knock.

After what seemed like minutes, a timid face appeared at the window looking apprehensive, eyes puffy from crying. She opened the door a crack, the deadbolt chain pulling taut.

“Can I help you?” she asked quietly.

“Abby, right?” Sam started, she nodded, “We wanted to talk to you about the video you posted.” A look of fear passed over the girl’s face, and she began to push the door shut. Sam lunged and held it open before it could swing all the way closed. “We can help. We want to find the woman who made you do it.” She stopped pushing. “My name’s Sam, this is my brother Dean, and our friend Castiel; we hunt the kinds of people like the lady you met.”

Abby looked between the men, a little more alert than she had been.

“What do you mean ‘the kinds of people’?” she asked, looking back at Sam.

“Would you believe me if I said witches?” he asked.

Her eyebrows rose. “Witches?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but we can explain,” Dean interjected. She looked Dean up and down, and then Cas, before looking back at Sam again; she closed the door, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door fully. She swept her hand out to invite them in.

Once settled around the coffee table, with Dean, Cas and Sam squashed into one sofa, and Abby on the other, she looked expectantly at the boys.

“You said in the video, ‘She made me do it.’ Who is she? How do you meet her?” Sam asked. Abby’s face grew apprehensive again.

“I was walking home from work and this woman approached me. She was really pretty, but she had mean eyes,” she recalled.

“Mean eyes?” Dean interrupted.

“Like when she smiled, she didn’t look happy, she looked scary,” Abby told him. “And she knew my name - I’m sure I’ve never met her before, but she knew my name, and she knew I keep a diary. And she said I had to read it live online, and that she’d know if I missed bits out, like she knew there were things I didn’t want people to hear.” Tears were collecting at the corners of her eyes now. Cas passed her a box of tissues from the end table next to him, and she dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose.

“What else did she say?” Sam encouraged.

“She said she was bored, that everyone in this town was boring, except for Will, and that she wanted me to entertain her. I think she meant Will Chaplin; he works at the bank. He badly burnt his leg on a barbeque last week. I think he’s still in hospital, said some lady blackmailed him into it. Most people think he’s lying because he was doing it for a dare or something stupid like that, but I believe him.”

“Did she say anything else?” Dean pushed.

Abby was fully crying now. “She grabbed me and whispered something in my ear that I didn’t understand, and my arm burned, and when she let go it felt like my whole body was on fire and then she was gone.”

Cas sat forward. “What did she whisper? Can you remember any of it?” he asked, speaking for the first time since they arrived.

‘ _Time and a place, man. The girl’s crying_.’ Dean thought to himself.

Abby considered for a second. “No. Who is she? Why did she make me do this!?” she said between sniffles.

“We think she’s a witch, someone who can do real magic. And sometimes those people are just bad people.” Sam tried to explain as he pulled the folded-up picture of the sigil from his pocket. “This mark on your arm is a sign of her magic.” Abby frowned, subconsciously rubbing her arm, “What happened after she left?”

“There was a weird tattoo on my arm. It was a timer, counting down, starting at two hours. And that mark above it, that’s where she grabbed me. I ran home, went straight to my room. That’s when the pain started again, just for a few seconds, like someone was squeezing all my insides.” She drew her arms around her torso, “And when I looked at my arm it had been fifteen minutes. So I did what she wanted. She was going to kill me if I didn’t. Every fifteen minutes, the pain came again, the same every time I tried to stop.” She paused for a second; wiping her face, which was soaked with tears, on another tissue from the box Cas had passed her. “When I got to the end, there were so many comments and some people were being so mean, and I tried to delete it, but the pain came again worse than before. The timer said I had like fifteen minutes left, and the comments got worse and worse. People were sharing it, there were strangers commenting and laughing at me-” her voice faltered for a second, “And then when the timer was done, it dissolved into my arm. So did the weird mark. And then there was this laughing, and I could hear the woman’s voice, but she wasn’t in the room. She said ‘That was as funny as I thought it would be. Good job!’ And I waited for the pain again. But nothing came, so I tried to delete the video again, and it worked, but over a thousand people had seen it by then.” She stopped talking, dropping her face into her hands, and sobbed loudly.

Dean flashed a look a Sam, who was better at dealing with crying women; Cas was so uncomfortable he looked pained. Sam stood up, unsure of how to comfort her. He pulled another tissue from the box and held it out to her until she took it, awkwardly patting her shoulder, flashing a look as Dean as if to say ‘what the hell do I do?’

When Abby sat back up, Sam moved quickly back to the sofa.

“My parents are trying to get a transfer at work, or find new jobs near my aunts in Colorado. I can’t stay here. They think someone from school bullied me into doing it, that I’m just too scared to tell them who… _I thought I was going to die_.” She paused for a few seconds, “Why did she do it?” Abby asked finally.

“We don’t know exactly. Most witches have a purpose, like revenge, or getting more power. But we’re going to find her and stop her doing it to someone else.” Sam tried to reassure her. A small smiled formed on Abby’s face, though the tears that were still streaming down her face.

“Will you really?” she asked, sounding almost hopeful.

“Promise.” Sam responded, giving his most reassuring smile. Abby’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall behind the boys.

“You need to go. My parents might find it weird that I’ve let three grown men in the house.” She almost laughed. They all stood up, and she led them to the door. “I hope you get her,” she told them as they walked out the door.

Cas turned back looking concerned. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” he told her. She smiled sadly, and watched them walk back to the car.

“So, there’s at least one other victim.” Dean said as they settled in the car,

“Will Chaplin,” Cas confirmed.

“Someone’s gotta go talk to him,” Sam agreed.

Dean started the engine. “Me and Cas will talk to him, and you should probably see if any other weird crap’s happened in this town recently,” he suggested. Sam nodded. “What do you reckon this witch’s game is? There’s nothing to gain from making a girl humiliate herself, except maybe some kinda sick enjoyment. Either of you heard of a witch who’s a bitch just because she can be?” Both shook their heads. “Fantastic,” he said as he drove back to the motel.

***

“She’s just a sadistic bitch,” Dean reported, throwing his jacket on the bed and himself into the chair opposite Sam at the tiny table in their motel room. Cas sat on the end of Dean’s bed. “She told the guy that she was bored and he should barbeque himself just to make her happy.”

“And here’s another potential victim.” Sam spun his laptop to face Dean. “Simon Barrett took a hammer to the zoo last weekend and tried to break into a capuchin enclosure in broad daylight. He’s now under psych-eval, because he insists a ‘beautiful woman’ forced him to do it.”

“Beautiful? I’m touched!” came a voice from the motel door. “And I wouldn’t say forced, more so asked very nicely.” Three pairs of eyes turned to her. “Don’t get up on my account,” she added sarcastically.

Dean assessed her quickly. She was short, well-dressed, and like Abby had described, she had a beautiful face, except her dark eyes, which danced with an angry fire. Her accent was faintly European. It wasn’t often the monsters they hunted showed up for a social call, this was unfamiliar territory. She tutted, walked across the room, and held her hand out to Sam. “Yrsa.”

Dumbfounded, Sam shook her hand. When Dean cleared his throat pointedly, Sam blinked as if to shake himself out of a reverie. “I’m Sam, this-“

Yrsa cut him off. “Oh, I know who you are.” She turned to shake Dean’s hand, then Cas’s. “Imagine, I'm here entertaining myself, and who should show up?” She paused dramatically, rolling her eyes when all she received were blank stares, “Humanities Greatest Defenders! What are the kids calling you these days? _Team Free Will!_ ” She rolled her eyes again, and conjured an armchair in the centre of the room, between the bed and the table, and settled herself.

“Entertain yourself?” Dean questioned, finding his voice. Yrsa laughed.

“All of you, you're like performing monkeys. I say jump, you say how high. I love it. Have you got any hard liquor?” she asked, as if she wasn’t discussing using humanity as her own reality TV show. When none of the men responded she tutted again and summoned a bottle of whiskey from the mini fridge. “Gods, you three are boring. I’ve heard all the stories, y’know; I was expecting a bit more razzle-dazzle. Look at the three of you, sitting there with faces like slapped arses. Where are the big strong men that stopped the apocalypse? They sound _far_ more entertaining.” She upended the bottle and finished it in one mouthful.

“Well, we’re all out of razzle-dazzle, so why don’t you just turn into a bat and fly back to wherever you came from, or whatever it is you do.” Dean suggested. Sometimes asking nicely worked. Not often though.

Yrsa didn’t look at him. “Pity,” she said quietly, “I was so looking forward to winding you boys up and watching you go.”

“You can’t just use humans as your toys.” Cas ground out; Dean could see that he was seething. Yrsa laughed again.

“Why not? It’s what your papa does, isn’t it?” She questioned, mocking in a matter-of-fact tone. Cas spluttered.

“You can’t just threaten people into doing what you want,” Dean tried to argue Cas’s point. Yrsa fixed him with a glare that made Dean sweat.

“I am far older than you, boy. Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do.” Her voice crackled with authority. She turned away. “You boys should be grateful I made it so easy for them, I could have demanded they find the Holy Grail, or travel to Egypt and bring me the bones of Cleopatra. Oh, what a good idea! Excuse me, I’ve just found today’s entertainment.” She was once again on her feet, the armchair gone. Sam rose to his feet, his chair flung to the floor.

“We’re not going to just let you leave,” he told her. Yrsa looked him up and down, and smirked, slowly walking towards him.

“Darling, you couldn’t stop me even if you were full of demon juice, possessed by Lucifer, _and_ having the luckiest day of your life .” She spoke low and dangerous.

Sam squared his shoulders and looked her in the eye. “I’m feeling lucky.”

Yrsa’s face broke into a maniacal grin, and without warning she gripped him by the throat. Despite her tiny stature, she lifted him clear off the ground,

“Sam!” Dean flew to his feet, but didn’t move any further. Evil witches he could fight, even murderous, vengeful ones. But unhinged, psychopathic? There was no telling the magic she possessed, the lengths she would go to to retaliate. None of them had been ready to engage this woman, almost every weapon they had was in the trunk of the car, and somehow he knew just shooting her wouldn’t work. He was rooted to the floor, torn between throwing himself at her, and hoping Sam would fight his way free. Sam grappled at Yrsa’s hand, but her grip didn’t wane. She was stronger than she looked. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Cas pull something from inside his coat. He took a few steps forward, and raised his arm, knife in hand. Dean didn’t know what he hoped to achieve - witches weren’t invulnerable to attack, but it was brazen to approach one this powerful armed only with a knife. Sam’s feet were flailing now, and Dean still hadn’t moved. Over the sound of Sam choking he could just about hear Yrsa start up an incantation.

Cas moved to strike the witch, but without looking, she deflected him. In one motion, Yrsa released Sam, who had begun turning a violent purple, and rounded on Cas, another incantation forming on her lips. Without thinking, Dean moved, throwing himself between the witch and angel, swinging an arm that caught her on the jaw. Without missing a beat, she caught his retreating arm, and swung him so his back was flush against her, bending him backwards so she could still see over his shoulder. Sam had struggled to his feet, breath ragged, while Cas stood, eyes wild and angry, knife still poised to swing.

Yrsa laughed softly in his ear. “Oh, my day just got much more interesting,” she muttered to him, glancing between Sam and Cas. Dean struggled, but she’d managed to pull him into a rather effective arm lock, and moving sent lances of pain through his shoulders. “Stop moving for a second, I'm thinking,” she told them, and Dean found himself completely frozen, noticing Sam and Cas were the same. She muttered to herself in a voice to low for even Dean to hear, after a few seconds, “Yes, oh, this could be fabulous.” Shifting her weight a little, she muttered under her breath again. Dean’s eyes flitted between his brother and his friend, both of them just in his line of sight, still frozen in place, the panic he felt reflected in their eyes.

“Right, this has been fun,” she announced after a minute, “I’ve got places I to be, idiots to manipulate, but we should do this again sometime,” she added sweetly. And she was gone, all three men collapsed to the floor in her absence; “You boys are smart, I’m sure you can work it out,” came her disembodied voice.

And then, Dean began to burn.


	2. Chapter 2

**07:58:56**

When the pain subsided, Dean opened his eyes to see a pair of concerned blue eyes. “Dean! Are you okay?” Cas asked, the worry clear in his voice. Dean nodded, noting that now the pain had passed it was as if it hadn’t happened. “We’ve got 8 hours.” Cas told him, indicating Dean’s arm. Dean pushed himself to sit and pulled his arm into view. Indeed there was a timer, much the same as the one on Abby’s arm from the pictures. The digits wrote themselves in loopy cursive script for each count, like an invisible quill looping over his forearm over and over. Dean thumped the threadbare carpet.

“Son of a Bitch!” he shouted in frustration, “Did she say anything else? What have I gotta do to stop the time?” he asked frantically.

“We’ve got nothing. No clues. She said we’d work it out, but I don’t know how,” Sam replied, having managed to pull himself back up to the chair, his voice hoarse.

“You good?” Dean asked him, taking Cas’s offered hand and hauling himself to his feet.

Sam smiled wearily. “No real damage,” he rasped in response. Dean sat on the end of the bed; Cas took the chair at the table.

“So what have we got?” Confident in Sam’s assessment, Dean brought the matter back around.

Sam sifted through the sheets of paper on the table. “The only thing I can think of,” he said pulling a sheet from the pile, “is this.” It was the picture of the sigil from Abby’s video. Dean pulled up his sleeve. His own upper arm was bare, and the three of them sighed. “I suppose we could try and work out Abby’s sigil and see where that gets us?” Sam suggested. He passed the picture to Cas, “Anything you recognize?” he asked.

As Cas studied the picture, Dean got up to lean over his shoulder. What looked like one cohesive design was in fact a small collection of individual characters, one horizontal line, a vertical line with a diagonal line through it, a triangular number 8, and what could only be described as a vertical line with legs.

“These are definitely Celtic runes, but beyond that, I can’t help you. I’m sorry.” Cas looked dejected for a second. “I’m sure there are databases with interpretations on the internet,” he suggested. Sam tapped his laptop back to life and began a search.

**07:32:14**

Dean rolled his shoulders in agitation; it was just his luck that out of the three of them the witch had decided to curse him. And of course, it was a sadistic bitch that wanted to watch them dance around in a hot panic for a while first. He rolled his aching shoulder again and lay back on the bed, dropping the printed-out images from webpages Sam had shoved at him. He cupped his shoulder and rolled it a few more times, trying to lessen the ache. It was only when he began kneading it that he realized that rather than his shirt under his middle finger he could feel puckered skin.

“Hey, I got something.” Sam’s voice finally broke the silence that had stretched between them all as they’d been engrossed in their research. He spun the laptop so Dean and Cas could see the screen. “This site has a directory of all the possible meanings for runes, all of Abby’s are on there.” Dean crouched in front of the screen, momentarily forgetting about the puckered skin on his shoulder. Sam pointed to each rune on turn. “The line could be, among other things, deceit, betrayal, illusions. The wonky cross: distress, need, restlessness. The 8 shape: ending, completion, hopelessness. And the last one: hidden danger, taboo, warning. They all kinda fit what Yrsa made Abby do.”

Dean was about the mention the mark on his shoulder when the first episode of pain hit, radiating from his shoulder and all over his body. With the fire licking at his skin, he was in Hell again. He could almost smell the flesh burning off his skin again, so lost in the pain of the memory. And then as suddenly as it arrived, it disappeared. Dean was surprised to see he was still crouching by the table, though his iron grip on the table top was perhaps the only thing keeping him upright.

Sam and Cas were staring at him, not in surprise so much as helplessness. The pain hadn’t lasted long enough for them to react, but it wasn’t like there was anything they could’ve done, as this was the pattern of Yrsa’s _entertainment_.

“My shoulder,” Dean ground out, gesturing to the one closest to Cas. The pain had gone, but the tension of such an aggressively triggered memory was taking longer to ebb away.

Cas leaned forward. “Your shirt is burnt,” he observed. Dean grit his teeth and pulled the shirt taut so the skin was visible underneath.

“On the skin, dumbass.” He grumbled. Cas gently placed a hand on his shoulder, tilting Dean toward him so he could look properly.

“Dean, you’ve found it.” He ran his finger lightly over the skin. “Sam.” Sam rounded the table to inspect the sigil.

“Yes! That part matches the directory! Hang on Dean.” Sam pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from the mess of the table, leaning in the top of Dean’s spine he copied the sigil down. Once Sam sat back in his chair, Dean returned himself to the bed. Sam was already cross-referencing the runes.

Dean waited the few minutes impatiently. Meanwhile, Cas crossed to Dean, a frown on his face. Without saying anything he crouched to inspect the sigil, again placing his hands gently on either side of the hole in Dean’s shirt to tilt him this way and that.

Finally, he huffed. “Thought so, that bottom one isn’t Celtic.”

Sam looked up. “That explains why I can’t find it,” he replied. Bringing the laptop and scrap of paper with the runes written on across the room with him, Sam perched next to Dean on the bed. “But I’ve got the other three. The vertical cross could mean a few things, namely, gifts and personal relationships.” Cas twitched where he was still crouched next to Dean, but otherwise said nothing. “The one that looks like the letter ‘p’ - the most popular interpretations are joy, comfort, and fellowship.” Cas audibly gasped, jerking Dean’s shoulder back into his eye line.

“What the hell m-”

Cas cut Dean off. “Sam, say those interpretations again, slowly,” he instructed.

“Wh-” Dean went to question again.

“Sh.” Cas had shushed him? Cas was looking to Sam with intense eyes. Sam’s brow furrowed.

“Joy, comfort, and fellowship,” he read, pausing for a second between each word. A familiar smile turned up the corners of Cas’s mouth.

“Comfort,” he said to... Dean’s shoulder? His smile widened. “Joy.” His eyes flitted to Dean’s face and back again. “Comfort.” Smile. “Burger-”

“Alright man, what the hell! Why are you talking to my shoulder?” Dean jerked away, more confused that actually annoyed. Cas rolled his eyes.

“She’s a very skilled witch, I’ll give her that.” He stood up and beckoned the brothers to the mirror that hung over the table, spun Dean so the sigil was reflected and he could see what was on his back. Here Dean got his first look at the mark; it was an inch across, and looked as thought it had been branded with a rounded wax seal. The runes were raised and prominent against the seared flesh in the shape of a diamond. Dean found himself impressed that he’d not only failed to notice it had been there for half an hour, but also that he hadn’t felt it happening.

“Yeah,” Dean said, “So what’s so impressive?”

“Comfort,” Cas said again. The rune on the left lit up ever so faintly, not enough that it would be visible from a distance, but just enough that you could tell it was some kind of signal. “Joy.” The sigil lost its luminescence. Dean and Sam’s eyes widened simultaneously.

Sam raised his laptop again.

“Gifts.” No change. “Personal Relationships.” The top sigil glowed. All three men smiled, a hopeful look in their eyes. After a few seconds both of the runes lost their glow.

The third rune was the inverse of the second. “Sorrow.” It, too, glowed.

“Personal Relationship, Comfort, Sorrow.” Cas listed. All 3 runes glowed. The men stared, clustered closely to each other and the mirror, happy with their work for a few seconds, and then reality hit.

“Great, so what the hell does that mean.” Dean broke the triumphant silence. They all stepped apart, returning to their previous seats.

“No idea, but we’ve still got,” Cas lifted Dean’s arm, “7 hours, 18 minutes, and 12 seconds to work it out.” Dean snatched his arm back.

**00:31:54**

They had tried everything, exhausted every contact they could collectively pool between the three of them and Bobby, searched through the pages of Google where no one dared stray. They’d thrown out every suggestion of what that particular combination of runic interpretation could possibly mean, just shouting pointlessly into the air; a few times the runes had flickered for barely a second, like they were trying to give them hints, but nothing stuck. They were working off of the blind hope that the sigil would tell them if they said the right one. It had worked so far, right?

Cas had made it his personal mission to solve the fourth rune. It looked like some kind of Celtic knot, but nothing they had found so far indicated that it actually meant anything. He’d been out for almost two hours, trying to contact anyone and everyone he could think of that might know what, if anything, the rune meant.

Dean was beginning to panic now; the episodes of pain were getting worse, and they were no closer to solving this task Yrsa had set, let alone figuring out how to complete it. He looked down at his arm, counting the seconds until the next wave. He laid down with a couple seconds to spare, seizing his muscles as the pain gripped him.

He wasn’t just burning now; he could feel his skin melt away drip by sizzling drip, his bones snapping, every single organ in his body burning individually, his joints tearing out of their sockets. _Everything at once._ Behind his eyelids, Hell played on loop, every awful memory, every damning choice he’d made down there, flickering like a ‘Best Moments’ reel on a game show.

And then, once again, as quickly as it started, it stopped. Dean found himself curled in the fetal position on the bed; a few tears had escaped his eyes. His breathing was heavy for a few seconds, and though his eyes were open he could almost see the shadows of Hell writhing around the room. His chest was tight, and there was a ringing in his ears. Dean focused on his breathing - this had happened before, though not for a few years - after a few seconds he managed to even out his breaths. Hastily he wiped his face and sat up.

Other than deep frown lines across his forehead, Sam hadn’t reacted, which Dean appreciated. He hadn’t told Sam or Cas about the Hell aspect of this torture, since they were worried enough about the intense amount of pain he was clearly in each time, and he didn’t need to put a voice to the atrocities he’d committed in the past.

“That felt like the longest one yet,” Dean commented, attempting to fake nonchalance. Sam looked up.

“Nope, 20 seconds like every other time.” He looked sympathetic. “That one looked like it hurt more,” he added.

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean tried to play it down.

“Cas just texted, he’ll be back soon,” Sam told him. Dean nodded, crossing back to the table, and tried to shake the feeling like there was a black hole in his stomach sucking his soul back to the pit.

_Personal Relationship, Comfort, Sorrow._ He ran through the list in his head again. He knew the runes flickered when he ran through the names of his parents, Sam, Cas, Bobby, Jody, Ellen, anyone he cared about. There was the barest flicker when he mentioned anything about any of them dying or getting hurt, which worried him. From what Dean had seen of Yrsa’s ‘entertainment’, she was sadistic and unpredictable, and there was a chance that she intended on him doing someone he cared about harm. If she knew anything about him, she should know he’d rather die than do anything like that.

He was boring a hole into the table by now, not really focusing on anything, letting his eyes wander aimlessly over the piles of paper, books, and the complementary newspaper. As his eyes passed over the newspaper for a second time, the sigil on his shoulder gave an uncharacteristic throb. Dean focused his eyes on what he was looking at, and he was bewildered to see an advertisement for health insurance taking up half the back page, a stock photo of a father and son embracing outside a hospital, with the slogan, ‘ _Make the right choice for someone you can’t live without, so you don’t have to make it later._ ’ Dean snorted, and turned the paper to Sam.

“I think Yrsa wants us to get health insurance,” he joked halfheartedly. Sam read the headline and frowned.

“Why?” he asked.

“The sigil kinda pulsed when I looked at this dumbass ad.” Dean turned it back around, and read the slogan aloud in a mocking voice. “‘Make the right choice for someone you can’t live without, so you don’t-’”

“Dean!” Sam almost launched himself across the table, eyes glued to Dean’s shoulder. Dean turned his head and even he could see the light emanating through his shirt out of the corner of his eye. He brought the newspaper in front of him so he could read and still see over his shoulder.

“Make the right choice for-” he paused and the light dimmed to a dull glow, barely visible.

“Carry on, I think I know what the answer is,” Sam said, not moving a muscle, his eyes still zeroed just over Dean’s shoulder.

“-someone you can’t live without, so you don’t have to make it later.” The light flashed bright, and then dimmed again.

“Someone you can’t live without,” Sam breathed. When the sigil lit up brightly again, they’d clearly found the right answer. Dean mentally ran though the short list of words, matching them up with their full meanings; he could tell Sam was doing the same.

“Well, I guess it works,” he concluded, Sam nodded his agreement. “What do I do now?”

_It had to be Sam_ , Dean thought to himself. _Who else would it be?_ He’d looked after the kid since he was born. ‘ _Watch over Sammy_ ’ was a mantra so ingrained in his brain he was surprised he didn’t whisper it in his sleep. And he had quite literally died for him on more than one occasion. It had to be Sam.

Maybe he could just tell him - surely that would work?

“Uh, Sam, I, uh, I can’t live without you man.” He tried to smirk, play it off so it didn’t become some sappy chick-flick moment.

Sam deadpanned.

Nothing changed. The clock continued to tick.

“I, uh, y’know, couldn’t live with,” cough, “myself if you… died,” he added, hoping clarification was necessary.

Nothing. Dean threw his arms up in exasperation.

Sam walked to stand behind him, so he could see the sigil properly.

“The bottom rune is still not lit; we must be missing something.”

As Sam spoke, a burning feeling ran up the inside of Dean’s arm. He steeled himself for a second, and then slowly turned it so he could see what had changed.

‘ _Show them_ ’ was written in the same cursive font just under the timer, which now read _00:23:35_.

“Show them? What the hell is that supposed to mean!?” he all but yelled. “What is with this chick?” Dean was raging now, his panic only adding to his agitation. The timer was ticking closer and closer to _00:00:00_ , and here was yet another dumb cryptic clue that led them nowhere. How do you show someone you can’t live with out them, without doing something stupid like jumping in front of a loaded gun for them? Hadn’t Dean taken a bullet for Sam enough times? Metaphorically and physically. What the hell did he need to do? Propose? Shoot himself in the foot to show he was serious?

**00:08:46**

They’d gone around in circles, frustrations rising higher and higher. Dean found himself honestly debating pulling his gun and putting a bullet through his knee to make a point. Or maybe Yrsa’s end game was that he was to die to prove this ridiculous notion.

Cas pushed through the door, frustration evident on his face.

“Nobody recognizes it; it must be her own design,” he announced.

Dean spun in his seat, the light from the rising sun (they hadn’t slept since arriving in town) throwing a soft haze through the open doorway where Cas had paused, framing him like some kind of renaissance painting .

_Of course._

If not Sam, then Cas.

The thought of losing Sam was painful, but now with Cas standing in front of him, he realised that he’d lost Sam before when he fell into the pit, and it had hurt. But he’d found a way to start to heal. The thought of losing Cas, however, _burned_ in his chest. That feeling in the pit of his stomach had returned. Maybe it was the unknown territory. Maybe because he didn’t know what it was like to actually lose him. Every time he’d been without him before, the hurt had barely registered before Cas had returned, or Dean had refused to believe he was gone, fighting tooth and nail to get him back.

Thinking about it now, he’d die for both of them - he’d jumped in front of loaded guns and raised knives for them - but he’d lived without Sam. Every time Dean and Cas had been apart, Dean had done everything he could to get back to him. Every betrayal had felt personal because it put distance between them, and he’d forgiven the guy for every transgression, just as Cas had done for him.

Dean stood, and approached Cas. It had to be him. Now that he was right in front of him, Dean realised that it couldn’t have been anyone else. Cas looked at him, his frustration morphing into confusion.

“ _It’s you._ ” Dean told him softly, “It’s always been you.”

“Dean?” Cas questioned, a frown creasing his brow.

“We worked it out,” Dean tried to explain. “Who can’t I live without.” Cas looked even more confused, “I thought it was Sam, but it’s you. Of course it’s you,” he said softly.

The world had fallen away; Sam had faded into the background, the timer ticking away on his arm all but forgotten. There was just Dean and Cas, and the light glowing at the edges of his silhouette. Dean stepped closer, until they were within touching distance.

_Show them._

How did he show Cas? This was a different ballpark than when he was trying to think about Sam. Cas was a part of Dean, but somehow he hadn’t realised until now that he didn’t work without Cas, not properly. A weight in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t realise he’d been carrying all these years disappeared, and suddenly he was lighter. 

“Whatever it is your thinking, keep going.” Sam’s low voice barely pierced the bubble. “The last rune is starting to glow.”

_Show them._

There was one way he could think to show Cas that he couldn’t live without him, that he needed him. But would Cas be receptive to the action, if it was just to save Dean’s life? Dean tilted his arm forward; he had barely 2 minutes left. It was now or never.

And then he was kissing Cas.

Dean hadn’t realised until now that he was sweating. His hands were clammy where they cupped the back of Cas’s neck; his shirt stuck to his back. Cas took barely a second to react, as though he’d guessed where Dean’s thoughts had been heading, or maybe he wanted this? His arms snaked around Dean’s waist pulling him closer.

Vaguely, Dean heard Sam excuse himself, but he didn’t react. Dean realised that he wanted this. This felt good… natural even. Cas’s lips were soft, and there was no awkward tentativeness. They were in tandem, knowing when and how to move like it was instinctual.

By the time they broke apart, the curse had been almost forgotten. Somehow Cas’s hand had ended up in Dean’s, and they stood for a few seconds, catching their breaths, foreheads touching.

“That was… unexpected,” Cas commented finally with a soft smile. Dean laughed softly and smirked, pulling away a little, to run his hand over his face in mute embarrassment.

“I guess. Sorry, should’ve given you some warning, or asked,” he muttered, a flush creeping up his cheeks.

“I don’t want an apology,” Cas replied, squeezing Dean’s hand gently. Only when he looked down to admire their interlocked fingers did he catch sight of his bare arm and remember the reason he’d even kissed Cas. He pulled his hand out of Cas’s to hold both arms out in front of him. The timer had disappeared.

“It worked!” he exclaimed. Swept up in his elation, he threw himself back at Cas, pulling him into another enthusiastic kiss, and only breaking apart when Sam decided that sitting on the side of the bath waiting from them to be done was not the way he wanted to spend his morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated (and give me the validation I so greatly need right now) xo


	3. Epilogue

“Hear you wanted a chat.” Dean bashed his head on the hood of the trunk as Yrsa’s voice startled him. Once they were sure the curse had been lifted, the three men had slept in shifts, expecting Yrsa to make another appearance. Clearly, she wanted to speak to Dean alone, because she’d waited for him to do a food run before approaching.

Rubbing his head ruefully, Dean pulled out from under the trunk. Yrsa stood leaning against the car, wearing a tight leather bodice and layers of skirts, her dark hair fanning out in a mane around her head. When the street lamps caught her eyes they were almost golden. She looked every bit of the Celtic warrior she was.

“A chat isn’t the word I’d use,” he replied, hand instinctually reaching for the knife in his waistband. Yrsa kissed her teeth .

“Don’t fash ,” she told him, waving a dismissive hand. “You were very good at the end there. The middle got a bit boring, though. You were so close, and yet so far. But that kiss at the end,” she squeezed her fists at him in excitement, “urgh, like something out of a soap opera!” She kissed her fingers. “ _Beautiful_. You had me worried for a minute there, didn’t think you were going to connect all the dots. I thought I was _actually_ going to have to kill you. How would that have looked!?”

Dean frowned. “Actually kill me?” he asked. “So I was never going to die?”

“I never said you would, you just assumed,” she told him, a mischievous grin on her face. “Stop with the pouty angry face, I didn’t lie, I just omitted some truths. It’s not my fault the Winchesters always assume the worst.”

“But you were gonna kill the others - you told them you would,” Dean retorted.

“Oh yeah, them I lied to.” She smirked. “Why on earth would I go to the trouble of killing any of you? I was in Salem, y’know; I know how easily humans get spooked. And the attention it would bring, Gods no, I don’t need that, its bad for my skin and bad for business. I'll admit I may have gotten a little brazen looking for entertainment three times in one town, but what’s life without a bit of risk.” She winked. “They just needed more motivation; their jobs were harder than yours.”

“Speaking of, where do you get off on making me make out with Cas!? That’s easy compared to what you made the kid do,” Dean asked, curious now. She clearly wasn’t here to finish him off, only to goad him; he could put a knife in her chest after he understood her motivations. For precautions sake though, he kept his hand around the handle, not caring that it was obvious he was poised to attack. Somehow, he knew she’d be disappointed if he didn’t remain on guard.

“You didn’t make it easy; the hints I had to give you, Gods! But I love watching uptight men do feelings,” she laughed mockingly. “It’s like watching a monkey try to find a mate.” She paused to look Dean up and down. “Besides, I’d heard the rumors about you and the angel. Every supernatural being on this continent knows about the two of you dancing around each other like school children.” She rolled her eyes, a knowing look on her face, “I wasn’t sure until you threw yourself in front of him though, that was a nice touch, very heroic. Especially as I was this close,” she held up her fingers very close together, “to squeezing the life out of your dear brother.”

Dean flushed guiltily. “You took us by surprise. I barely had time to react,” he mumbled, embarrassed and ashamed by the realisation that he had indeed been slow to react to Sam’s attack.

“But react you did when I turned to the angel.” Yrsa laughed mockingly again. “Once you played the hero, I knew the rumors were founded. Wanted to see if you could work out the glaringly obvious.”

“So, what, you played matchmaker for an _experiment?_ ” Dean retorted. Were there really rumors about him and Cas? How had he not heard them? Surely they weren’t so obvious? Especially as Dean was completely unaware that he even had feelings for Cas until that morning.

“Like I said, you uptight macho men repress all your feelings, Shakespeare couldn’t write a tragi-comedy as good as watching you lot dance around your feelings for each other, being upset that nothing can fill the void, not realising that the answer is right in front of you because it’s not wearing in the right _meatsuit_. Oh, I could watch action replays of the look of realisation on your face when the angel walked through the door. If I’d have recorded it I could sell it to every witch, demon, vampire, and shifter this side of the planet.” There was that mocking laugh again. She looked him in the eye. “You should thank me. You got your man! I did you a favour.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean replied sarcastically. “I appreciated the matchmaking, interspersed by little flashes of Hell.” Yrsa frowned,

“I have no idea what you mean.” She told him.

“Those flashes of pain, with memories from when I was in the pit,” Dean spat, a sudden surge of anger rising within him. He’d spent a long time running from those memories, had finally reached a point where he felt like he could stop running from that particular period of his life, and she’d dredged it all back up. Her smile was almost sad this time. Almost.

“All I did was a simple torture spell. You brought your own trauma to the party, my dear. You should get therapy for that.” She patted the hand he had resting on the car sympathetically. “Tell you what, since you’ve been such delicious entertainment, I’ll concede.” She put her hands up in a mock surrender. “I’ll just toddle off somewhere where there are less hunters to ruin my day. Pinky promise.” She even held up her little finger.

Dean barked a laugh. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?” he demanded, hand tightening around the handle of his knife. Yrsa narrowed her eyes, and stood up straight. Where she had been casual, almost friendly before, she now exuded intimidation and power.

“It would be better for you if you didn’t use that toothpick in your waistband to cause me unnecessary irritation. Believe me, boy, you will not win. You have been a good distraction, and I’ve enjoyed watching you dance, but don’t think for a second that just because I’ve been performing parlour tricks to amuse myself I’m not capable of turning you to ash.” She flexed her fingers, and as she whispered a string of words under her breath, the wind picked up. “I’m leaving now. Don’t try and find me. You will fail. I give you my word I will not play here, and my word is my truth. You have done your job, Winchester; you’ve rid this town of the nasty witch. Don’t start fights you can’t win,” she warned. The wind abruptly blew like a hurricane, and like paper in a breeze, Yrsa took to the sky and disappeared into the clouds.

Dean kicked the back tire of the Impala.

“ _Bitch!_ ” he bellowed. He threw himself into the drivers’ seat and took off along the short stretch of highway back to the motel.

Dean hated witches. They were unpredictable, vindictive, and conniving. Yrsa might’ve been the worst he’d met, but he also had to admire her daring. She’d forced him to admit to himself something he hadn’t realised he’d been burying. Now it was plainly and painfully obvious that he had feelings for Cas, and had for years. Any one-night-stands he’d had over the past few years had left him feeling empty and dejected in a way they hadn’t when he was younger, and now he realised why.

Perhaps, when he was less seething, and maybe a little drunk, after he’d talked to Cas properly about what exactly they were to each other, maybe he’d look back and laugh.

But for now all he could think of was how to tell Abby that she was safe, all he had to offer was Yrsa’s word, and considering the way the witch had treated her, Dean didn’t think that would bring Abby much comfort. And there was _nothing_ Dean could do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to add a little note here to kind of explain the epilogue and how downbeat it is hahha  
> The way this fic turned out kind of ended up being a full episode, and in an episode you have a kind of false ending where the climax of the episode happens, demon gets ganked, bones get burned, and it's a 'nice' moment, the episode could always end there on a high note. But it never does, theres always the bit at the end where Sam and Dean have an argument, or someone gets a mysterious call, that brings the episode back to the rest of the storyline. That's what my epilogue is, you could definitely finish the story at the end of chapter 2, and have a nice mushy ending, or you can finish the story, and its a bit more depressing, but its whole... and also gives me and excuse to write more for Yrsa if I wanted to, because I love her hahahahha
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed reading this, as always, comments and validation that this wasn't awful are greatly appreciated xo


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